


a hands-off approach

by OmalleyMeetsTibbs, simplyclockwork



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Background Mystrade, Bisexual John Watson, COVID-19, Coronavirus, Crack, Developing Relationship, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Idiots to bigger idiots, Johnlock - Freeform, Love Confessions, M/M, Mrs. Hudson - sneak attack, Mrs. Hudson Ships It, Possible COVID Exposure, Quarantine, Sherlock is a Brat, Touch-Starved, attempts at romance, awkward idiots, varied pov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:42:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26743078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OmalleyMeetsTibbs/pseuds/OmalleyMeetsTibbs, https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyclockwork/pseuds/simplyclockwork
Summary: Quarantine is a time of reflection, a time of adapting, a time of finding connection through other means.And throwing sticky hands at your touch-starved flatmate.ORHow to comfort your touch-starved consulting detective during COVID: a guide by John Watson.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 57
Kudos: 301
Collections: Isolated Johnlock Collection, Sherlock26





	a hands-off approach

**Author's Note:**

> OmalleyMeetsTibbs and I had a very cracky conversation over Facebook messenger about John and Sherlock in quarantine, and somehow it evolved into this cracky, silly, lovey, smutty little fic.
> 
> Visual references for sticky hands and clappy hands, as referenced in the fic:
> 
> [Sticky Hands](https://images-na.ssl-images-amazon.com/images/I/712CWdYOt-L._AC_SL1500_.jpg)
> 
> [Clappy Hands](https://images-na.ssl-images-amazon.com/images/I/41KdFAmKXfL._AC_.jpg)

When the pandemic begins, John predicts (correctly) that Sherlock will struggle. To absolutely no one’s surprise, Sherlock continues much as he always has, leaning over corpses and standing in people’s personal space, no matter how many times John snaps at him to keep his distance. 

However, nothing tops John’s reaction when Sherlock strips off his gloves at a crime scene and hooks his finger into a dead man’s mouth. 

_“What are you doing?”_ John hisses, resisting the urge to grab Sherlock’s hand and yank it away lest he be exposed as well. 

“He’s already dead,” Sherlock replies, bewildered by the rage pouring from John. 

“Yeah, of a suspected respiratory illness,” John seethes, crossing his arms over his chest. “I thought you were a genius.”

Sherlock pouts, looking affronted. “I _am_ a genius.” He tugs his fingers out of the dead man’s mouth and glowers. “Fine, I won’t stick my hands in anyone else’s mouth.” 

Sighing his relief, John closes his eyes briefly before opening them and nodding. “Good. Thank you.”

“Unless there is a mutual agreement for me to do so,” Sherlock adds after a moment of thought. John throws his hands into the air and growls his frustration before moving six feet away from the body, making way for the forensics team to step in. 

Five minutes later, Sherlock licks a doorknob to identify a substance smeared on the dented metal. John struggles not to go nuclear. “Oh my _god_ , you did _not_ just _lick that bloody doorknob during a pandemic.”_

Sherlock shoots him a dour look. “I clearly did, John, or are you experiencing memory loss?”

“That’s it,” John snaps, hooking his hands under Sherlock’s armpits. “We’re going. No more case for you.” 

“But, but…” Sherlock protests fall on dead ears, and he rolls his shoulders, trying to dislodge John to no avail. “But John! The case!”

“Nope.” John grits his teeth, scowling as he hauls Sherlock away. “I should have known letting you leave the house was a risk. Too many chances for exposure with you around other people.”

“But, _John!”_ Sherlock manages to slip free and straightens his jacket with a huff. “They’re already dead!”

Hands clenching into tight fists, John snaps, “Yeah, and we’ll be, too, if you don’t stop sticking your fingers in dead people’s mouths! And _licking random, high-touch objects,_ ” he adds, as Sherlock sticks his tongue out toward the wall of a bus stop with a mutinous expression. John manhandles him down the sidewalk, snarling, “Stop licking things people have touched, you _walking petri dish!”_

  
  
  


Because of the size of their flat and John’s lingering fury, Sherlock is banished downstairs to the mouldy hell of 221C. Sherlock huffs and growls, and points out to an irate John, “If I _do_ have the Coronavirus, then sticking me in a flat contaminated by damp is hardly beneficial for my respiratory health.”

“Yeah, well, it might keep me from strangling you to death,” John shoots back, tossing pillows and blankets at Sherlock from a distance. “I think that would be much more detrimental to both of us.”

  
  
  


Sherlock lasts two days in the downstairs flat by himself before Mrs. Hudson corners John with her concerns.

“I’m worried about him,” she says, a pensive little frown between her eyes. “He doesn’t do well on his own.”

John waves a hand, unconcerned. “I’m sure he’s fine.” When Mrs. Hudson continues to stare at him, he looks up from his newspaper with a bemused expression. “What?”

“Don’t you miss him, John?” There is a slight plea in her voice, and John narrows his eyes.

“I don’t know,” he mutters, looking away with a creased brow. “Maybe.” He catches Mrs. Hudson’s grin from the corner of his eyes. 

“I knew it,” she trills, tossing an extending feather duster at him. “Now, go see that he’s alright.”

John stares at the duster in his hand, lips pursed as he looks back up at his landlady. “What am I supposed to do with this?”

“It’s so you can keep your distance,” she replies, hands fluttering about as she moves toward the door. Leaving John with more questions than answers, Mrs. Hudson clicks her way back downstairs. John blinks and looks down at the duster, thinking, _what the_ hell _am I supposed to do with this?_

  
  
  


Trying to comfort Sherlock Holmes with an extendable feather duster goes about as well as expected. Which is to say, it goes poorly.

After opening the door and entering the tiny unrented bachelor flat, John narrows his eyes at a lump of blankets in the corner. Sherlock’s unruly curls peek out from the top, the rest of him hidden in the makeshift nest. 

Sucking in a breath, a dubious expression on his face, John extends the duster and, after a moment of hesitation, strokes it over Sherlock’s covered back. Sherlock shifts and sits up with a start, his eyes wide and bewildered before he blinks and stares at John. His gaze flickers to the duster, brows lowering before he looks back at John. “What are you doing?” he asks in a slow, careful manner, clearly thinking John may have gone mad.

John winces before hiding the duster behind himself and rubbing the back of his neck with his empty hand. “I… uh… Mrs. Hudson said…” his voice trails off, and he sighs, helplessly finishing, “Just pretend it’s my hand.” With a raise of his eyebrows, he brings the duster forward and wiggles it about in a fashion he hopes appears enticing. Judging by Sherlock’s stare, he fails. “Okay?”

Eyes narrowed, Sherlock frowns. “Why would I do that?”

John sighs again. “Just _do_ it, alright?”

Still puzzled, Sherlock tilts his head and looks at the duster tapping him lightly on the shoulder. “Why is your hand so dusty?”

“Shut the fuck up, Sherlock.” 

  
  
  


After the feather duster’s failure, Mrs. Hudson brings John a glove filled with water and sand. John accepts the offering with blatant confusion, and she pats him on the shoulder.

“It’ll feel more like a real hand,” she explains while explaining absolutely nothing, and once more leaving John to fumble his way toward answers. 

Standing in the doorway of 221C, he looks dubiously at the sloshy glove and back to Sherlock. The detective perches on top of his pile of blankets like a reluctant king. His curls stick up in a sweaty mess, and his once-pristine suit looks rumpled. 

“Come to dust me again?” he asks sourly, shooting John a glower from under his lashes. Despite his attitude, the expression is rather endearing, and John finds himself tossing the hand at Sherlock without thinking. 

It lands on the floor, and Sherlock jumps, startled. His foot comes down on the glove, and it explodes, spilling wet sand and water over the floor. Sherlock’s brows fly up, then drop and furrow, and he gapes at John. “What the _hell_ is this?” he demands, waving at the mess, but John is still recovering from his fumble, his face red and hot.

“You exploded my hand!” he shouts, flustered. Sherlock leaps to his feet, rigid and activated, his arms flying over his head to express his frustration.

“It was a glove, filled with sand and water, which you threw at me!” His voice lowers as he prods at the glove shrapnel. “It’s not _real,_ John.”

“It was real for _us_ ,” John huffs, turning on his heel. “Feather duster it is, then, you fucking sod.”

“I didn’t ask for this!” Sherlock shouts after him, voice rising as the door slams shut behind John.

Standing outside, John stares at the closed door. The click of her kitten heels announces Mrs. Hudson’s presence before she appears at the end of the hall. “Oh, John,” she tuts, taking in his furrowed brow and the mess of wet sand on his socks. “You were supposed to attach it to the end of a broom, like the feather duster. Control it from a distance.” Shaking her head, she turns away, leaving John more confused than he was before. How was he supposed to know that? 

  
  
  


When John returns later that evening, he finds Sherlock pouting in the corner of the room, arms folded over his chest. “Alright, this isn’t working. You can come back to 221B. But!” John holds up a hand, stalling Sherlock’s words. “ _B_ _ut_ you have to wear a mask. Don’t even think about breathing near me. And you will stay in your zone.” Sherlock huffs but relents, following at a distance as they climb the stairs to 221B.

Upstairs, there is a line of tape separating half of the sitting room from the other, with a path marked between the sitting room to the kitchen, to the bathroom, to Sherlock’s bedroom.

“This is your zone,” John explains, waving Sherlock behind the tape. “You _will_ stay in your zone—No, Sherlock, no! Stay in your zone!” The forlorn look on Sherlock’s face cuts into John’s resolve as he tries to stay strong. “No, I don’t care if you want a hug… okay, fine, I do. Dammit, stay there, I’ll…” Defeated, John’s shoulders slump as he turns toward the third floor. “I’ll get the feather duster.”

  
  
  


John returns home after a quick trip to the store, a bag of ideas in hand. Sitting in his chair, legs curled up beneath him, Sherlock looks up from his pout with interest. “What did you buy?”

Reaching into the bag, John pulls out a stick with two plastic hands at the top. He gives it a shake. “Say something smart.”

Sherlock scowls. “I can’t just _turn it on_ like a tap, John,” he snaps, irritated. “It’s clear you haven’t been to the store in a while, going by the state of your shoes, hair and—”

“Yeah, good, that’s perfect,” John interrupts. He shakes the stick, and the two hands make a clicking sound against one another, a tinny sound of fake applause. John grins at Sherlock’s sour expression. “No? Alright, fine.” He drops the clapping hands onto the sofa and digs back into the bag. “How about this?” His hand emerges with a package of squishy, multi-coloured _things_ that Sherlock squints at.

“What are—” something adhesive strikes his face and falls off to the floor. Sherlock picks it up and squints at a squishy toy shaped like a hand on a string. He raises confused eyes to John in time to narrowly avoid the second toss, which strikes the wall behind him and hangs there before skidding down to the floor. “John, what the—”

“Here, let me stroke your cheek,” John says, grinning wide as his next toss hits Sherlock in the face with a wet-sounding _smack._

By the end of the day, sticky hands mark the flat. When Mrs. Hudson comes upstairs to leave a plate of biscuits, she pauses in the doorway. Eyes narrowed, she takes in the sight of John sitting on the sofa with Sherlock curled into a petulant ball in his chair, and sticky hands of various neon colours clinging to the walls, ceiling, floor, and Sherlock’s hair.

“What is all over my walls?” she demands, setting the plate on the coffee table. Sherlock tenses into a tighter coil and scowls over at an amused John.

“John won’t stop ‘touching’ me from a distance,” he grumbles. 

Mrs. Hudson shoots John a look. Keeping his expression neutral, John lifts his newspaper higher to hide his smirk.

  
  
  


Despite the assault of the sticky hands, Sherlock is clearly touch-starved. When John finds him fiddling with one of the hands, patting it against his cheek with a forlorn expression, the feeling that rises within him takes him by surprise. Suddenly, seeing Sherlock so desolate makes his chest tighten, something hard and hot lodged beneath his ribs. 

Before he can question his actions, John digs out the long pillow he used after his injury to keep pressure off his healing shoulder. It reminds him of those ‘boyfriend pillows’ he saw in a Facebook ad once, and he tries not to dwell on the connotation of such a term. Shaking the thoughts away, John stuffs the pillow into one of his jumpers, strides into the sitting room, and tosses it at Sherlock. He doesn’t wait to see or hear the response, instead trotting back up to his bedroom. It is an obvious tactical retreat, and John perches on the edge of his bed with tightly-clenched fists.

When he finally relaxes and returns to the sitting room, Sherlock is curled around the pillow, asleep in his chair. His face rests in the jumper, expression softened and slack, his arms tight around the offering. 

Looking at him, John has to swallow twice around his tight throat. _Oh,_ he thinks, taking in the view, feeling how his heart thuds, _I’m in love with him._ Until recently, John hasn’t realized just how much he misses Sherlock in his space, the casual, fleeting touches between them.

He settles on the sofa and picks up his newspaper again, trying to ignore the way his hands shake.

  
  
  


When Sherlock wakes, he blinks his eyes open, finds John watching him, and flushes bright red. John watches him back, his expression cautious. Sherlock shifts and hesitantly pulls the pillow closer, cheek rubbing into the soft fabric of John’s jumper.

Overwhelmed by his feelings, by his sudden and screaming desire to cross the room and kiss the man staring at him, John hurls one of the sticky hands with a desperate throw. It hits Sherlock on the lips with a _whap_ , and Sherlock recoils in shock. Before he can fully recover, John is standing, his hands flexing helplessly at his sides, his expression twisting, clearly preparing himself to say… _something_. Something important.

Sherlock is on his feet instantly, fleeing for the stairs with the pillow clutched tightly to his chest. “Two meters away, John!” he shouts, rushing to escape the emotional miasma of the sitting room. John calls after him as Sherlock skids down the stairs, racing for 221C. “I can’t hear you!”

John’s voice follows him, the man himself leaning over the banister to call,” Yeah, two _meters_ , Sherlock! Not _two floors!_ Get back up here!”

“It’s whatever I want it to be!” Sherlock snaps, forcing a fake cough as he fumbles with the door to 221C. “Don’t talk to me until I’ve been cleared, or… or I’m _dead!”_

  
  
  


Sherlock’s remaining days in isolation pass without much interaction with John, to both his dismay and relief. He shouts for Mrs. Hudson to leave his food outside the door and retreats to his nest of blankets with John’s jumper-wrapped pillow, refusing to let John in when he knocks. 

In his solitude, he plots. Isolation ends in two days, and Sherlock calls Angelo. He makes a reservation, swearing Angelo to silence until then and allowing the addition of a candle to their saved table. When John leaves to go to work on his final day of quarantine, Sherlock sneaks upstairs and rips apart several roses ordered online. After changing out his sheets, he spreads the petals over his bed and across the floor, his heart racing. 

Today. Sherlock will face John today, now that Sherlock’s quarantine is nearing its end, and tell him what John means to him. Finally, he will open his mouth and release the words that have been burning at the back of his throat since John first petted him with a feather duster. 

As Sherlock heads to the shower for a proper first-date pampering, the slimy sense-memory of the sticky hand John threw at him lingers on his lips. Fingertips fluttering in front of his mouth, Sherlock aches for the touch of John’s hungry kiss to replace it.

  
  
  


By the time John is due back from work, Sherlock is a jittering mess. He fidgets with his suit, dressed in an immaculate ensemble with his hair carefully styled. 

John appears in the sitting room doorway, and the welcoming smile falls from Sherlock’s lips at the tense expression on John’s face.

“John?” he steps forward, pausing when John holds up a hand to stop him.

“There was an exposure,” John says, his voice low. “At the clinic.” His brow furrows, and he glares at the floor. “I have to quarantine.” 

Sherlock’s stomach drops, and his hands wring together in a tight knot. “Oh,” he says softly. John nods, his expression unreadable.

“Yeah.” Clearing his throat, he rolls his shoulders with a sigh. “I’m… look. I’m tired. I’m going to bed.”

“Alright,” Sherlock murmurs, watching John climb the stairs to the second floor. He hears the door to John’s bedroom close and stands for a moment, mind whirling. His disappointment is immense, sinking deep and weighing him down. It takes precious time to shake off, and even then, Sherlock’s feet drag as he crosses the room to find his mobile. 

Angelo sounds desolate on the other end of the call. “But, Sherlock… the candle… for the table…” a rough sniff and a harsher tone. “The _romance…”_ Sherlock can hear the downturn of Angelo’s mouth through the phone, and he clenches his teeth. 

“Just cancel the reservation, Angelo,” he snaps before forcing his voice to soften. “Please.” 

“Of course, Sherlock.” 

Hanging up the phone, Sherlock drops his forehead against his knees, curled up in his chair. He remains there for a spell until he finally feels able to rise. He crosses the sitting room and into the kitchen, digging under the sink for a garbage bag. In his bedroom, Sherlock angrily snatches up the scattered rose petals, shoving them into the sack. His lips purse into a tense line, and he blinks rapidly to keep his eyes from stinging. Teeth bared, he pushes the emotion away, dismissing it as allergies to the flowers, and tosses the bag and a handful of crushed roses into the bin.

Walking back inside, Sherlock scrubs at his face, straightens his shoulders and sets about rearranging the tape in the sitting room to accommodate John’s habitual spaces. He’s thankful John has yet to ask for the body pillow and his jumper back. He’ll be needing it tonight. 

  
  
  


John spends the night and half of the next day in his room. When he finally emerges, it is to trot directly downstairs to the bins. He stands over them and looks at the flowers in his hands, the sentiment-filled card attached to the stems. 

With the possibility of illness on the horizon, he can’t bring himself to make any promises to Sherlock. Not when Sherlock could lose him so quickly afterward. The flowers won’t last, and the card is dated, and now both are irrelevant.

Shaking his head, John moves to shove them in the trash and pauses, brow furrowed. He looks down at a half-open bag of petals and wilted roses. He blinks, wets his dry lips, and carefully sets his flowers on top before closing the lid.

Back in the house, sitting in his chair where Sherlock moved it into John’s quarantine zone, John looks up as Sherlock emerges from his bedroom. He looks pensive and agitated, and John narrows his eyes before asking, “Sherlock, why are there roses in the garbage?”

Sherlock freezes in the kitchen, hand hovering over the kettle. “I don’t know, John,” he says slowly, finally recovering. “Why were you going through the garbage?”

“I wasn’t,” John replies, looking away. “Just… noticed.”

“As always, John,” Sherlock sniffs, sounding cold and harsh, “you see, but you do not observe.”

“But, I—” John begins, protesting weakly, only for Sherlock to speak over him. He unleashes a series of mean, biting deductions that leave John bristling. Unable to storm off, John sulks in his zone, his expression dark.

“Yeah, well, fuck you, too,” he snaps, turning away. Sherlock putters silently around the kitchen and doesn’t answer.

Staring out the window, John frowns as it begins to rain.

  
  
  


The days pass in fraught silence. When Sherlock was in quarantine, John would still sit in the same room as him, taking off the edge of isolation. During John’s, Sherlock is not quite so accommodating. In fact, John would say he is downright rude, if not avoidant. There are no more late-night tea times with violin solos. No attempts at contact with feather dusters or sticky hands. 

John turns to look up at the ceiling. A sticky hand hangs overhead, shot up there like a rubber band by Sherlock during one of his ‘quarantine experiments.’ Hands tight against the arm of his chair, John wonders what happened to _that_ Sherlock? To _them._

A sense of dread creeps over John as he considers the letter in the rubbish bin. Could Sherlock have seen it? When was collection day? Rubbing a hand over his eyes, he sighs, resigning himself to the fact Sherlock must have seen and just… doesn’t reciprocate. No wonder the past week felt so tense. Sherlock probably doesn’t know how to turn John down while John has nowhere else to go, and they are stuck here. Together. 

  
  
  


A few days before the end of John’s quarantine, the mood in 221B is still sour. The very air in the flat buzzes with anger and hurt feelings, and both John and Sherlock avoid each other whenever possible. The only concrete interaction between them occurs when Sherlock hurls John’s long pillow at him from the hallway. John clutches it in confused hurt until he looks down and realizes one of Sherlock’s ridiculously tight dress shirts is buttoned closed around it.

When he looks up to speak, Sherlock disappears back into his bedroom, the door clicking shut behind him. Brow furrowed, John tucks the offering under his chin and inhales the scent of Sherlock’s detergent and subtle traces of cologne. It’s reassuring to know his sense of smell hasn’t changed. Maybe he won’t be sick, after all. That is one thing to look forward to, even if Sherlock is still being _an utter cock._

Stuffing the pillow under his head, John shifts in his chair and closes his eyes. The lingering scent of Sherlock is far more soothing than he cares to admit. 

  
  
  


The avoidance continues until Mrs. Hudson storms upstairs and points at John, where he sits sipping tea in his chair, “You,” she demands, waving him forward, “I need you in 221C. _Now.”_

John frowns but rises to his feet, bemused. “But…” he looks around. Sherlock is nowhere in sight. “Now?”

“Now,” Mrs. Hudson repeats, and John follows her at a distance with a sigh. 

Downstairs, she opens the door and steps back, waving him inside. “In you go, young man,” she orders, and John shoots her another look as he complies.

He steps through the door and pauses, looking up to find Sherlock standing at the other end of the room. John frowns and turns to question Mrs. Hudson, but the door closes in his face, and John’s words die in his throat. He hears the click of the lock, and his eyes widen. 

“I… wait… what?” He taps on the door, and Mrs. Hudson shouts at him from the other side.

“Talk!” Her voice is stern. The handle doesn’t budge when John tries to turn it. “I’m not letting you two out of there until you do!” The door muffles the sound of her heels clicking against the floor as she walks away.

Trapped, John finally turns around. Still standing at the other end of the room, Sherlock watches him warily. He looks tense, hands stiff at his side as his pale eyes dart over John. They settle on John’s wristwatch and narrow.

“How long until your quarantine ends?” he asks, his voice carefully empty of emotion. John clears his throat and glances at the device, wetting his lips before answering.

“Couple hours.” Sherlock nods and folds to the ground, gracefully sinking into his pile of blankets. After a moment, he tosses one to John, who wraps it around his shoulders to ward off the chill damp of the flat.

Sometime later, he’s beginning to doze off when Sherlock speaks. 

“Why are we in here?”

Blinking the sleepiness away, John straightens with a yawn. “Not sure. Mrs. Hudson seems to think we have something to talk about.”

Sherlock looks away, scowling at the cold, empty fireplace. “Preposterous,” he mutters. John forces a weak smile.

“Yeah.” After a stretch of silence, he clears his throat. “Actually…” Sherlock glances at him, and John winces before pressing on. “You’ve been avoiding me, and I don’t know why. Did I do something wrong?”

Sherlock’s eyes dart away. “Why would you think that?” he asks. His tone is flat, empty, but his fingers tug at his trousers, fidgeting and flighty. John watches the unsettled movements, sorting his thoughts before replying.

“Just… you’ve definitely been avoiding me.”

Sherlock sniffs. “You’re in quarantine, John. I _have_ to avoid you.”

“Well, okay... that’s fair,” John admits. He reaches out and tugs at a loose thread on the blanket. “But…. I mean, when it was your turn, I didn’t lock myself in my room and ignore you.” He spares a glance at Sherlock, sees his face tensing. “I’m not trying to make you feel bad, Sherlock,” John hurries to add. “It just…” he swallows and wraps the thread around his finger, voice growing softer. “I don’t know. I guess… I guess I missed you.”

He hears a sharp inhale and looks up to find Sherlock staring at him with surprise. John licks his lips, and Sherlock’s eyes drop to track the motion. John feels his face grow warm. 

“Sherlock…?”

Sherlock turns his head and scowls, breaking the moment. “I didn’t want to avoid you, John,” he says quietly, and John shakes off his disappointment as the words sink in.

“Then why did you?” he asks. Sherlock’s shoulders stiffen. Instead of answering the question, he asks one of his own.

“How much longer on your quarantine?”

Confused at the subject change, John glances at his watch. “Fifteen minutes. Give or take.” 

Sherlock nods, his jaw clenching, the muscles working as he scratches at the side of his neck. “Fifteen minutes, John.” His eyes dart to John’s face and away again. “Just… just wait fifteen minutes.” A tight little smile twitches along his lips, and he adds, “Give or take.”

John’s mouth fills with questions, but something in Sherlock’s expression makes him swallow them back. “Okay,” he says roughly, folding his hands in his lap. “Alright, Sherlock.”

The minutes tick by, excruciatingly slow until John thinks he might go mad. He knows it’s illogical to think he can hear the sound of time sliding past. Convinced he can, John begins to fidget. As the enforced timeline drags into seconds, he looks up and meets Sherlock’s gaze.

There is hunger in Sherlock’s face, darkening his eyes. John sucks in a startled inhale at the sight and opens his mouth to speak. 

His phone vibrates, an alarm labelled, _End of Quarantine,_ ringing through the bare room. The air whooshes out of his lungs, and John rises to his feet without knowing why. It seems imperative that he stand. His wordless action pays off when Sherlock crosses the room, his long, confident stride closing the distance quickly. 

He stops, and John looks up at him. His mouth is dry, and his tongue darts out to wet his lips again, Sherlock’s eyes falling to the movement once more. One of his hands rises, curling along the curve of John’s jawline.

“John...” Sherlock’s voice is rough, strained, and John can’t stand it. Can’t wait another second as it all clicks into place: the rose petals, the avoidance, the pillow with Sherlock’s shirt. The haze of longing in Sherlock’s eyes.

Rocking up onto his toes, John grips the nape of Sherlock’s neck and tugs him down. Their lips crash together, the kiss messy, teeth clicking. John sucks in a breath, catches Sherlock’s exhale in his mouth, and sets it free on a low groan. Sherlock’s hands grip his face, fingers stroking John’s jaw, bending down to deepen the kiss. It’s all they can both do to hold on, to cling to one another, to gasp for air and taste one another’s eager tongues. 

When they finally part, the sound of their synchronized panting is loud, each seeking the breath fled from their aching lungs. 

His eyes wide and wondering, John cups Sherlock’s face in his palm, thumb smoothing over the ridge of a sharp cheekbone with something bordering on reverence. “I’ve wanted to do that for ages,” he admits, pressure lifting off his chest as the words drift between them, carried on their shared breath. 

Sherlock’s eyelashes flutter, and he groans, _“John…”_

Mouth quirking up at the corners, John tugs Sherlock down again, kissing him with intent and gentle lips. Sherlock’s arms slip around his shoulders, and he melts into John’s chest. When John pulls back to speak again, his voice is stern, “But no more sticking your fingers in dead peoples’ mouths.”

Sherlock frowns, pondering the implications of the command. “What if _you_ die? Can I stick my fingers in _your_ mouth?”

John narrows his eyes. “...I mean… I guess?” He shakes his head. “Whatever, you berk, just kiss me.” He lifts his head, finds Sherlock’s lips and kisses him with burning focus. His tongue skates long the seam of Sherlock’s mouth, licking inside before John grimaces and breaks the kiss. “Why do you taste like cigarettes?”

Sherlock has the decency to look sheepish. “I needed _something_ to keep my mouth occupied so I wouldn’t kiss you.” A blush works its way over his features as he grumbles, “It’s not _my_ fault you’re always licking your lips, drawing attention to them.”

His eyes softening at the admission, John shakes his head and smirks. “That’s a piss poor excuse, but I’ll give it to you.” Kissing Sherlock again, he stops with a wince. “Okay. Never mind. Brush your teeth at least. I can’t handle it.”

 _“Really,_ John?” Sherlock pouts, nuzzling against him and reluctant to part.

“Yes,” John insists, pushing him gently away. Sherlock’s bottom lip drops into a powerful pout.

Growling, Sherlock bangs on the door. To their surprise, it opens without resistance. Sherlock shoots John a look, who just shrugs. They leave the room and hurry upstairs. Back in 221B, Sherlock whirls and tries to back John against the wall. John fends him off with ease. 

Catching Sherlock’s hands, he turns him toward the hallway, ordering, “Teeth. _Now.”_

 _“Jawn,”_ Sherlock protests in a whine, struggling with John’s relentless grip to no avail.

Amused, John rolls his eyes. “Go!” 

With a final huff, Sherlock stomps off toward the bathroom, John managing to smack his arse before he is out of reach. Sherlock freezes, his eyes nearly popping from their sockets. His mind whirls with the ramifications of embarking on a relationship with an arse-smacking John Watson. After a moment of reflection, Sherlock realizes he is not against it. Not _at all._

When he shoots a glance over his shoulder, he finds John licking his lips, one pale eyebrow raised. Sherlock’s knees buckle, and he stumbles into the wall as all the blood in his body rushes southward. 

“Jesus,” John exclaims, reaching out to steady him. “I’m going to have to Sherlock-proof the corners.”

Sherlock scoffs at him and attempts to find his footing, but the floor is unexpectedly slippery, and he nearly loses his legs from beneath him again. Snorting, John rolls his eyes.

“I’ll just bloody carry you, shall I?” Without waiting for a response, he steps forward to sweep Sherlock into his arms. But the angle is off, and Sherlock is heavier than he looks, and they both go sprawling in a heap. Sherlock winces and huffs as his elbow and knee strike the floor, John’s shoulder making the ex-soldier groan when it connects with the wall. 

Tangled, defeated, they lie on the floor, breathing loudly. A giggle bubbles up from John’s chest, and Sherlock’s deep chuckle rumbles through John where their bodies press together.

“We are not young men anymore,” John puffs, winded. Sherlock growls and swats at his hip.

“Speak for yourself, Captain Grey Hair!” 

John glares at him, pointing a stern finger in his face. “Oi! I know you like the silver swoop, you giraffe-limbed buttplug!”

Eyes wide, Sherlock goggles at him, asking, “Wait, you know what a buttplug is?”

John squints, a smirk playing at the edges of his lips. Rolling his eyes, he says, “Duh, I’m bisexual, genius.”

Sherlock’s mouth pops open, incredulous. _“WHAT?”_

“Oh, for…” John rubs a hand over his face, shaking his head with a pained smile before looking back at Sherlock’s shocked expression. “I dated women, and I’m attracted to you… you can’t put two and two together?”

“Oh.” Sherlock blinks. “ _OH._ Not gay.” He rolls his eyes, shaking his head as he mutters, “There’s always something… but you never said!” he adds, almost accusingly. 

John cocks a brow. “Well, no one ever asked if I was _straight_ , did they?”

Sherlock’s face falls slack with realization. “ _Ohhh.”_

Chuckling, John flicks his shoulder. “Now, go brush your teeth. I’m already grey over here.”

Sherlock’s eyes roll. “Pretty sure brushing my teeth isn’t going to stop the flow of time, John.”

“Oi, watch it,” John warns with another stern point of his finger. “Do you _want_ me to kiss you?” At Sherlock’s mutinous expression, the sly edge to his grin, John adds, “You are _not_ too old for me to bend you over my knee and spank your arse.” Halfway to his feet, Sherlock loses his balance again and slides to the floor in a graceless heap. His breath whooshes out on a rumbling groan. John tries not to laugh, but a little snort escapes despite his efforts. “I’m going to get you some of those grippy socks.” 

“Shut _up_ , John,” Sherlock wails, trying to right himself. The sight of him, his long, gangly limbs flailing, sends John over the edge. Giggling, he can’t resist indulging in a little extra teasing.

“Do you think you’ll need one of those Acorn Stairlifts, too? Or can you manage the stairs with those beanpoles you call legs?”

“No one will ever find your body,” Sherlock grumbles, finally making it to his feet. He skids and slides down the hall, scowling at the floor and shooting John dirty looks over his shoulder until disappearing through the bathroom door. Still giggling, John gets to his feet and pads downstairs to borrow a pair of grippy socks from Mrs. Hudson.

“Oh, John,” she exclaims, handing the socks over with a warm pat on his shoulder. “You two made up, then?”

A faint flush in his cheeks, John clears his throat. “Ah, yeah. Yeah, we have.”

“Wonderful!” He receives another friendly pat before Mrs. Hudson leans forward and whispers, “What are the socks for?” 

Huffing a laugh, John replies, “Sherlock keeps slipping on the hallway floor. Seems he’s forgotten how to use his legs properly.”

“Oh, dear,” Mrs. Hudson hums, a gleam in her eye. “Well, you’d better not tell him, but I may have waxed your floor. I hoped it might encourage you two closer together. You know... help you _fall_ for one another?” 

The pun is horrific, and a startled laugh escapes John as he shakes his head. “Oh, you’re a menace, Mrs. Hudson.”

Her smile smug, Mrs. Hudson flashes him a wink. “Don’t you forget it, Doctor Watson. Now,” Making shooing motions with her hands, she waves him out toward the stairs, “you best get back to your man.” They both look upwards at the sound of a thud above. “Preferably _before_ he kills himself on that floor.” In a low mutter, she adds to herself, “I may have gone a little overboard, by the sound of things.” 

“Roger that, Mrs. H.” Grinning, the socks clutched in one hand, John trots up the stairs, calling, “I got you some socks. Mrs. Hudson has surprisingly large feet.” He steps into 221B to find Sherlock clinging to the wall, his legs shaky and bent, a scowl darkening his sharp features.

“What is _wrong_ with our floor!?” he demands, feet skidding on the hardwood. 

Smug and chuckling, John coos, “Aw, you’re just head over heels for me, aren’t you?” Sherlock shoots him a glare, his long legs reminding John of a baby deer taking its first steps.

With his legs splayed and his fingernails clawing at the wall, Sherlock snaps, “If I pull a groin muscle, there will be no sex, John!” 

The threat is clear, and John shakes his head. “Alright, alright, you drama queen. Come here, let me help you.” Gripping Sherlock’s sleeves, John tows him over the floor, bare feet gripping the slick surface with ease. Sherlock huffs and snarls at him until John tilts his head forward and whispers, “You’ll be fine.” His voice drops into a low, throaty purr that makes Sherlock shiver as John says, “We both know I’ll be doing all the work anyway. As if you’d ever need to lift a finger.” Sherlock shivers again, his pupils blown wide, eyes turning glazed and hazy. He looks about a second from drooling before John adds, “You know—since you’re such a _lazy arse.”_

Sherlock affects a scandalized expression, but John sweeps him into the bedroom and drags him down to the bed before he can retort. After weeks of pent-up frustration, they come together in a frenzy, John claiming Sherlock’s mouth, his neck, the dip of his navel. When his lips slip over Sherlock’s straining cock, Sherlock’s moans and panting sighs fill the room, his hips lifting, shifting, desperate right up until John hollows his cheeks a final time, and Sherlock comes shouting. 

With the taste of Sherlock’s release on his tongue, John props himself on an elbow over his lover and strokes his cock to the melody of Sherlock’s comedown gasps, his aftershock shivers. John’s orgasm steals the breath from his lungs and paints cum over Sherlock’s still-heaving stomach. 

As he collapses onto Sherlock’s body, Sherlock all but melted into the mattress, John nuzzles his face into Sherlock’s sweaty neck, murmuring, “God, I can’t believe it took us this long to figure our feelings out.”

Sherlock’s reply is a soft, sleepy hum, and he wraps his arms tightly around John’s torso until his breathing dies off into a snore. Eyes closing, John presses his lips to Sherlock’s collarbone and drifts.

  
  
  


When they wake, they are both hard and aching, hungry for one another. John takes his time working Sherlock’s body open, his fingers slow and thorough so he can fuck fast and rough the second he slips into Sherlock’s tight heat. John shags Sherlock into a daze, leaving Sherlock to drift around the flat afterwards. He is quiet, his expression dreamy, content to pluck at the strings of his violin in aimless variations of partial songs.

A mug of tea in his hand, John lazes on the couch and can’t help the smile on his face, relishing the first uninterrupted period of peace and quiet 221B has ever seen. 

Three hours later, the calm drives him to boredom, and he bends Sherlock over the desk in the sitting room, each snap of his hips coaxing wanton whimpers and ecstatic gasps from Sherlock’s open mouth. 

True to form, John’s adrenaline junkie personality has him chasing dopamine and serotonin and rushing, perfect, synaptic bliss. Since they don’t have a case, he finds his fix in Sherlock, who has no complaints. John fucks him over the counter, in the shower, on the rug, in the upstairs bedroom that is now seldom used. By the end of the week, Sherlock is a puddle of a man, draped over the sofa with loose limbs and a permanent glow over his face. He barely reacts when his phone goes off, shoving it under the couch as John rolls him over for another go. 

As quarantine stretches on and on, they try new positions, new techniques, dabble in toys. Sherlock turns it into an experiment, tracking each unique experience’s results, and John is nothing if not willing to participate as an enthusiastic subject. Sherlock draws a graph, detailing the correlation between sex acts and his state of liquidity in the afterglow. At one point, he sighs to John, “You could murder me, and I would let you, so long as I’m involved in the planning.”

John takes this as the strange, macabre compliment that it is, and strokes Sherlock’s hip between thrusts until he comes with a sob.

  
  
  


Sitting at the kitchen table two weeks after embarking on their new intimate relationship, Sherlock chews on the end of a pen and squints at his chart. He details the results of the week to John out loud.

“On Monday, you did that thing with your tongue, and I couldn’t get off the floor for three solid hours because my legs turned into the consistency of a Wendy’s frosty. And Tuesday, it was over the chair, and then it was more like…” he pauses, considering the chart of John’s suggested comparisons, and concludes, “Jello.” 

When John first suggests the measurement terms, Sherlock scoffs. Once John explains it will earn Sherlock something called ‘brownie points,’ which can garner sexual favour, Sherlock caves. 

To his initial dismay, the brownie point system extends to chores. 

“Sweep the stairs,” John says to him one morning, shoving a broom into Sherlock’s hand where he stands at the top of the landing.

Offended, Sherlock shoots him a glare over his shoulder. “Why would I do that? Who cares if there’s dirt on the stairs?”

“I do,” John retorts. A sly smirk creeps over his face, and he tilts forward to drag his lips over Sherlock’s ear, whispering, “If you do it, I’ll lick your arsehole.” Leaving the broom in Sherlock’s stunned grasp, John turns and strides back into the flat to the sound of Sherlock tumbling down the stairs, the broom clanking after him.

With the proper incentive, Sherlock takes to chores with the same single-minded tenacity he takes to solving crime. He bustles through the sitting room with a bruise on his forehead and a handful of dirt. “Where do we keep the thing that all the dust bits go in?” 

Amused, John cocks his head at Sherlock’s shouted demand. “You mean the dustpan?”

“Yes! Yes, the dust-bit holder!”

“In the closet.” 

“Obvious!” Sherlock snaps, hurrying to retrieve the dustbin with frenetic energy. John turns back to reading the newspaper before Sherlock whirls through the sitting room, throws open the window, and dumps the dustbin contents outside. John tosses aside the newspaper and jumps to his feet.

“Sherlock! Stop dumping that out the window—there are people out there!” 

Sherlock freezes before the open window, dustbin suspended as he turns to John with wide, dismayed eyes. “Wait, does that mean you won’t lick my arsehole now?” His voice drifts through the open window, and John scrubs at his face with a groan.

“Oh my god, close the window before you say stuff like that out loud! People will hear you!”

Slamming the window shut, Sherlock tosses the dustbin on the desk and strides across the sitting room, his hands sliding over John’s front, fingers lacing behind his neck. “Don’t care about them,” he announces, leaning forward to drag his lips along the edge of John’s jaw. “Okay, I’m finished. Arse licking now, please.” 

John sighs, pinching his nose and already knowing he’s going to give in. “You are a menace,” he manages before grabbing Sherlock about the waist and tossing him onto the sofa. 

***

Outside, still standing on the sidewalk before 221B, Greg Lestrade tears his wide eyes away from the now-closed upstairs window. “Well,” he mumbles weakly, voice hoarse, “now I know why Sherlock isn’t answering my calls.” Shaking his head, looking shell-shocked, he turns on his heel and strides back towards his cruiser, fishing his mobile out with one hand. “I _really_ don’t have the stomach to hear anything more,” Greg mutters to himself, hitting a number on speed dial. The line rings out, and he clears his throat before saying, “Well, Mycroft, it’s not drugs.”

“If it’s not drugs, then what is it?” the voice says in his ear. Greg swallows, sounding strained when he replies.

“Pretty sure you don’t want to know.”

 _“Gregory,”_ comes the terse response. Greg sighs. 

“Yeah, okay…” Sliding into his cruiser, he grips his nose, takes a deep breath, and says, “He’s getting his arse licked, apparently.” A heavy silence meets his words. “By John,” Greg adds, in case he wasn’t clear. More silence, and he frowns. “Mycroft? Did the call drop?”

A loud sigh hums in his ear. “Unfortunately, no. No, it did not.”

“I’ll be home soon,” Greg soothes, holding back a laugh before his voice slips into a throaty growl. “I’ll make _all_ the bad images go away.”

There is a beat of silence before Mycroft replies, breathless, “Can we… can we try the arsehole licking thing?”

Greg grimaces. “Not sure I can do that without thinking of your brother now.”

“God, Gregory!” Mycroft snaps in an agitated tone. “Now, _I’m_ thinking of my brother.” A harsh gagging sound follows, and Greg winces. 

“Okay, let’s just do our usual bath and whiskey instead.”

Mycroft sniffs and replies, “Agreed.”


End file.
